Seasons
by Mrs. Witter
Summary: Rory and Tristan, as the seasons change. Complete.
1. Part One: Storm

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

**Rating: **R (for language)

**Characters**: Rory, Tristan

**Dedication: **To Rox for being a sounding board and for Sur because she loves happy endings.

**Author's Note: **This was written for the Trory challenge at the LJ community so the likelihood of there being a sequel is slim. But then again, never say never.

_Things to include_:

a snowstorm  
a fireplace  
Rory borrowing Tristan's clothes  
hot apple cider  
a phone call from Emily

_Things not to include_:

OOC-ness or sappiness  
Logan  
the use of nicknames excessively and or exclusively  
no Rory demanding coffee every two minutes

**Storm**

"_Yes_," Rory reassured Emily Gilmore again, resisting the urge to roll her eyes in a gesture that would surely be reminiscent of her mother. Rory 'handled' her grandmother with an expertise Lorelai lacked and it would take a snowstorm – like the one currently wreaking havoc outside the cabin, trapping her inside with nowhere to go – for a tone of irritation enter her voice while she spoke to her grandmother. "We're fine. There is plenty of firewood and necessities and I'm okay."

"Be careful. We'll have someone come fetch you as soon as this ridiculous weather lets up."

"Thank you, Grandma."

After Rory hung up, she sighed and closed her eyes, gathering her bearings before opening them again and scanning the room. _Of course he offers me the room and the bed_, she thought trying to be grateful. _He is nothing if not well-raised_. His smell enveloped her. She was wearing his clothes, too big for her but comfortable and clean.

It reminded her that he was there, mere feet away, hating her.

She needed to make amends, wasn't there a rule about never going to bed angry? _That's for husbands and wives_, she reminded herself with a bitter laugh. But bad blood between two people stuck in a tiny cabin during the mother of all snowstorms and with the nearest town miles away was not a good situation either and she just needed him to…stop looking at her like he wished she would just fucking disappear. He didn't have to say it for her to know that he was cursing her in his head.

When she stepped out from the bedroom at the back, he was leaning over the fireplace, unsettling the logs with a fire poker. He straightened, as if he knew she was there, put the poker away and turned slowly to face her. Later, in bed, she would think about how blue, vivid and rich blue, his eyes turned when he was angry and how the little twitch in the muscle of his jaw restrained the emotion churning within him from running rampant over his face. And how that feral look in his eyes, made her ache, deep and low in her belly for something so…she didn't think there was a word. But it was driving her insane, this thing between them that just wouldn't go away no matter how much she willed it, and she'd just have to look at him and it just fucking _hurt_ to look at him.

"Grandma will send someone when the storm lets up." She was surprised by the strength in her voice, how solid and _normal_ it sounded even as her heart battered against her ribcage. He kept his eyes on her, unblinking, and she nearly trembled. "I thought you'd want to know."

Finally, his lips curved, in a whisper of a jeering smile. "Thanks for informing me."

She reigned in her own anger and concentrated on making peace. "Tristan I -"

"There's some hot apple cider," he cut her off and hitched his head in the direction of the tiny kitchenette. "Help yourself."

She nodded, biting her lip from lashing out with, _I don't want apple cider damn it, I want you to listen. _If they both let anger run loose, it would just make the entire situation worse and Rory was just so tired of fighting him.

Tristan was tired, too. He had spent most of the day trudging through snow after his car had died down, the frostbite mean and vicious on his ears and hands and feet, getting lost on his way to the cabin he'd spent nearly every winter at and on top of that, worrying – _fucking worrying_ - about Rory Gilmore's rapidly blue lips and chattering teeth as she trudged behind him. The girl definitely lacked common sense in that much appreciated brain of hers if she went out on a cold December day, knowing full well about the snowstorm, with no gloves, no hat and a jacket that could barely keep anyone warm.

He should have just left her, stranded and helpless. Rory was just too much damn trouble, plain and simple.

Hadn't he always known that? It was true, because she was just so goddamned perfect. Perfect people were always trouble because they were a lie. They were denial and half-truths and…eyes so big and so beautiful and the color of the summer sky, that looked at you so that you forgot your own fucking name and the fucking reason why you hated them so much. Reminded you of what you could never have.

Look but don't touch. Dream (night after goddamn night) but never hold. Want but never, ever hope.

_Oh how pathetic_, he thought to himself as he stared into the fire, pushed up the sleeve of his sweater in annoyance, watching the burning embers. _Rory Gilmore has made me poetic. _

"I got you some," she said softly and handed him a glass as she came to stand beside him.

He took it, nixed the idea of throwing it into the flames, and continued to stare. What was she doing, standing so close to him so he could smell the shampoo and soap from her shower, swimming in his clothes so that he would just have to close his eyes and imagine what was underneath? She had no right to look so soft and fresh and rosy while he was so exhausted and weary.

They stood in silence, mugs of apple cider in their hands, as the fire cackled and the storm raged on outside.

"Don't be mad, Tristan." She said it so softly, he barely heard her. But she turned to him and rested on hand on his naked forearm and in a much clearer voice, "Please."

_Fuck_, he thought and didn't have to look up to know she was staring at him, imploring him with those eyes. Those damn eyes. _Don't fucking do that to me, Gilmore_.

"Go to sleep, Rory."

She tried not to be hurt by his careless and at the same time, harsh dismissal of her. "No, we need to talk about what happened."

She was harping on the frayed rope of his control and it was only fair to warn her. His voice was low and threatening, even to his own ears. "You need to turn around and leave, Rory. Before I do something you'll regret in the morning."

The fear was there within her; he was emanating with anger, she knew it was right there below the surface and one word, one wrong word, and he would unleash it on her without hesitation. The violence, sharp and steely, would leave scars that no amount of time would heal. Not physical, no, he'd never do that, but her heart, she was sure of it, would never survive.

"I can't."

The frustrated growl alerted her and she took a step back as he turned to her, finally _looked_ at her, the fury – beautiful, damn it, so beautiful- unfurled. "What do you want from me? Why the hell won't you just leave me alone?"

"I need to -" she faltered and avoided looking at him. "Talk. About what happened."

"You want to talk about it, Rory?" His voice sounded so ugly, vicious and harsh. Putting his mug on the coffee table, he turned to her again and spread his arms out. "Fine, we'll talk about it. Let's recap. You show up at _my_ grandparents Christmas party, God only knows why, depressed and sad because, as usual, some jerk-off broke your fucking heart. You get wasted and I take care of you (by making sure your grandparents or parents don't see you), I listen, first amused, while you pour your heart out to me and then, and here's the real ringer, I feel _sorry_ for you. I want to smash the miserable bastard's face in for making you cry."

"Tristan, I kno -"

"And then, I put you to bed after assuring your family that you're safe and unharmed and you ask me, in your best woe-is-me-damsel-in-fucking-distress voice to stay with you and glutton for punishment that I am I ignore every instinct that is telling me that it's a bad idea but I just get so...unhinged." He was raving now, that was the only word to describe it. "And…nothing happens. In fact, I stay up half the night watching you sleep."

Her eyes widened in surprised and he realized that he hadn't meant to let that slip. But it's out there and he just didn't care anymore. Her mouth opened and before she could even say the words, he knew he'd hate her more for it. "I'm sorry."

And like that, the anger came crashing down like a tidal wave. In its place was frustration, and exhaustion from the day, physical and mental, and he wanted her to leave, really just leave so that he could have some semblance of peace. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry for what, Rory? For making me into the bad guy? For lying to everyone about what really happened so that you could still be the perfect princess in the eyes of your precious family and friends? Or are you just sorry that I overheard?"

_"Oh God, I can't be sure." She giggled, actually _giggled_ as the lie came out. "I was so drunk; he probably tried to cop a feel or something, the jerk. God knows I'd never have gone to bed with him if I was in possession of all my mental faculties. He probably saw it as the perfect opening."_

It still hurt. Damn it, he really thought he was over it.

Rory couldn't look at him. The shame and guilt swirled inside and clenched at her gut; she had been so cruel. How could she explain to him that she could barely recognize the person staring back at her in the mirror, anymore? How could she make him understand that she hated herself for hurting him more that he ever could? "I never meant -"

"That's just it, isn't it? You never _mean _anything, Rory." He couldn't – wouldn't – listen to her explanation. He pocketed his hands in his jeans and glanced up at her. "You're so goddamned pure and true you could never mean anything. Jesus, I actually thought at one point during your drunken spiel that what kind of guy would let you go? But now I get it. I should be congratulating the poor fuck for having the brains and balls," his eyes narrowed and pinned her down, cold and malicious, "to get away from you as fast as he possibly could."

She accepted that blow, even as her heart cracked; she believed she deserved those cruel words. The tears stung, relentlessly and before she could stop it, brimmed over and ran down her cheek. "Tristan."

He curled his fists in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her and wiping the tears, Christ, he was more far gone than he even knew. "Got to bed, Rory. Then tomorrow morning your family will whisk you away from the big, bad DuGrey and you can go back to Stars Hollow and bury your head in the fucking sand. And we can just forget everything. All you'll be is a real bad memory."

Her heart shattered, right then and there, it simply shattered.

She covered her mouth with one hand and choked on the hot lump in her throat as he turned away from her, indicating that he was done with the conversation. Numb from the pain, she turned stiffly, as her mind reeled from his malice, his rejection. In the room, under the covers (she somehow managed to make it there without collapsing into a pathetic puddle) she felt the gaping hole inside her, the missing piece. She'd lost him, his friendship and, now that she could be true to herself (oh how cruel that the honesty came now), she'd lost the potential of his being so much more.

Outside, Tristan stared at the ceiling, the shadows of cast by the fireplace, dancing in strange patterns above him. He swallowed, past the hard knot in this throat and ignored the vise around his heart. Eyes closed, he focused on the sound of her quiet sobs, filling the tiny cabin.

And the storm raged on outside.

The End


	2. Part Two: Rain

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

**Rating: **R (for language)

**Characters**: Rory, Tristan

**Dedication: **To everyone who wanted a sequel.

**Author's Note: **This was originally going to be a one-part. I caved. There are two more parts coming up, just so you know.

**Part Two: Rain**

The sound of the rain against Rory's windowpane was making her restless.

She was perched on her bed as she stared out the window, her textbook lying, forgotten, on her lap. It wasn't coming down harshly, in that grey sleet-like quality, like it had been for the past week but, in fact, the skies had cleared up and the Earth looked musky, teeming with a new beginning. And yet the soft pitter-patter against the window harped on her already frayed nerves.

She told herself if was the end-of-the-semester stress, finals and uncertain summer prospects. She reminded herself that it was because of late nights working, studying, and chatting with her roommate about whatever came to their minds. She told herself it was the lack of coffee that she had recently, painfully (and reluctantly) excluded from her diet that caused the sluggish and idyllic feeling that seemed to inhabit her body for the last few months.

Rory knew, deep down in the place she kept locked and hidden from most of the world, the part of her heart that was off-limits, that it was because she couldn't stop her thoughts from wandering to him, not even for a day.

In the privacy and comfort of her own room, she let out a frustrated growl, pulled her legs up, bent at the knees and buried her face in her hands; letting her fingers drag through her hair as twisting the short strands between them.

The tears didn't come, she was sure she had no more left to cry.

There was anger, vibrant, painful and directed inwards. There was frustration in her gut, and the haunting sense of helplessness.

She glanced out the window again, her cheek resting on one knee, wondering if he thought of her. If, since she was whisked away from the cabin, almost four months ago, leaving him behind, cold and done with her, if even for a minute, his thoughts turned to her. She wished, a little, that he wondered if she was okay, if _she_ thought of him (every day, all the time, every-fucking-where) or if he wondered that she was happy, with them on separate paths.

Because she hoped to God he was happy, she really did. Otherwise the heavy weight in her chest, the constricting lump in her throat and the feeling of nothingness that she couldn't shake would be in vain. She _wanted_ for him to be happy just so she could feel better about feeling so wrecked. _He accused you of being selfish once upon a time_, Rory thought to herself, with a disgusted snort, _and you just proved him right, loser_.

The room, that only a moment ago provided her a safe haven, suddenly felt claustrophobic and on impulse, she grabbed her old Yale sweater and her keys, deciding she was going to have to fall back on habit (off the bandwagon, whatever it was Paris called it) and make a much-needed coffee run.

As she stalked towards the coffee shop at the corner of her street, she wondered how she must look to passersby; pale and wet, hair tangled and old sweats squeaky, sloppy sneakers. She had given up on her appearance, mainly because it had been awhile (long before Tristan had stepped out of her life again; she knew that her falling apart at the seams didn't have everything to do with him) since she had felt even remotely like the Rory Gilmore everyone knew – the pretty one, the bookworm, the sophisticated deb and least of all the small-town princess.

The aroma of coffee picked her up a little once she was inside the cafe; she fidgeted in line as she waited for her turn and managed a small smile at her own obsessive vices. She placed the order and handed the cashier a damp note, before turning around with her Styrofoam cup, taking a minute to absorb the warmth and smell of her favorite beverage. She was so engrossed, her eyes half-closed, that she all but forgot her surroundings until she bumped into someone else, almost spilling her coffee.

"Sorry," she muttered, balancing the cup and herself before looking up. Then she almost dropped the cup, staring at the familiar face, the frown of disapproval, the dispassionate blue eyes. "Tristan. Hey."

Running into her in a coffee shop. It was, he thought philosophically, inevitable. And it was, he added furiously, as if he had willed her to run into him today.

For almost four months he had successfully pushed that night in the cabin, and most of his rela…acquaintance with Rory Gilmore to the far recess of his mind. But today when the rain had finally let up and the sky had turned so blue he couldn't help but think of her and those eyes (what was it about those fucking eyes?) it was as if his body was on autopilot and he had found himself at the coffee shop, belatedly realizing that he was in her neighborhood.

Tristan's fingers curled deep in the pockets of his jeans, he avoided her gaze and replied, evenly, tightly, "Rory."

"How've you been?" she asks softly, treading carefully, her head tilting to one side as she worried her bottom lip. Wet and pale and still too beautiful. He lifted a shoulder as a response to her question. She nodded, shifted her weight and kept her eyes trained on him. "Maybe we can take a walk or something?"

"That's not a good idea." She winced and he wondered why he didn't politely lie and tell her he had to be somewhere else.

"Okay."

The meekness in her voice made him angry; he wished she'd have the guts to be indignant or angry or make some sort of heated retort. She made him feel like a heel, like a school bully picking on the most defenseless kid in class, and he hated himself for it.

"I have to go," he said after a minute of uncomfortable silence.

"Yeah, me too," she replied, quickly and looked away. "Last final tomorrow."

"Good luck," he stated and meant it but his voice held the politeness of a mere acquaintance. She smiled, half-heartedly and murmured her thanks. "Bye."

Because he wanted to touch her, because it would have been so easy for him to reach out and cup her face in his palm, he quickly escaped into the misty air outside. But he didn't make it far before her voice stopped him.

"Tristan." In spite of himself, he turned and waited for her to continue. She hesitated right outside the door of the café before taking a step closer. Her eyes searched his, looking for some sign of understanding, of acknowledgment. She looked so pale, so tired. Concern stirred in him, guilt gnawed in his stomach. "I miss you."

He expelled a breath and it ended in a short, brittle chuckle. "I'm sure you think you do."

She made a frustrated sound and took another step forward. "Tristan, I _know_ what I feel and I just -"

"No, you really don't. No one knows that better than me. And I don't know what you want from me, Gilmore," he cut her off sharply, effectively. "Except that you have to stop making me the villain of your little melodrama."

"That's not what I'm doing!" she protested and then lowered her voice a little as people passed by and stared. "I'm trying to make things right between us."

He smiled, unkindly. "When have things ever been right between us, Rory?"

If she thought that her tears had dried up, she had been wrong. They stung at the back of her eyes, ready to fall in the face of his stubborn pride and inability to let her past the wall erected between them. "Tristan, please. What I said that day, it was wrong and I knew it."

"Then why'd you say it?"

"Because I was…" she trailed off; the reasons for her cruel words were not going to soften him towards her. "I was stupid."

He nodded and pocketed his hands, looking at her levelly. "And I've stopped being stupid, Rory. Especially when it comes to you."

She closed her eyes, tried to gather her strength for the next words as she crossed her arms over her midriff. "I want you to stop hating me, Tristan."

This time, his laugh was disbelieving. He spread one arm out and took a step closer, towering over her. "You really don't get it, do you, Gilmore? This isn't about you, it never has been. Don't make yourself out to be the misunderstood or the wronged, okay? Stop playing the fucking damsel in distress for one goddamn minute and try to think back to who started all of this. You hated me when we were sixteen and I may have deserved it but ever since then I've been the perfect fucking friend. Jesus, I let you walk all over me and for what? It wasn't like you were giving it up, either."

"Don't make this about sex!" she interrupted him, anger flaring up at his words.

"Of course not, _Mary_," he jeered as he trailed a finger down the side of her face, the gesture mocking rather than intimate. "Except that it is about sex. Truthfully, Princess, that's all it ever has been about between me and you. Except you're too scared to admit it. Lost little girl."

"Why are you doing this, Tristan?" she asked, a tear, unbidden, slipping down her cheek as she tipped her face to his.

"Maybe you were right all along," he answered, his warm breath dancing over her lips. "Maybe I am just some desperate guy, waiting in line to get you on your back and I'd do anything to make it happen."

"I know that's not true," she dissented, curling her fingers into fists to keep from touching him. "I know what you feel -"

"Really? You know how I feel, do you?" he questioned softly though he had stopped touching her. "Can you tell me how it feels to have all of your good intentions reduced to something so trivial and unimportant? To be the butt of a joke, a thing to be wished away because it is so unpleasant to deal with?" He looked at her, the intensity of his dislike for her, his anger and his hurt hitting her like a sucker punch in her gut. "Bet you can't Rory Gilmore. Because no one ever has done that to you, have they?"

"Tristan…"

"Don't," he stopped her and took a step away as if she has physically pushed him away. "Don't say my name like that. Like you're going to fucking break. Buck up, Gilmore. Where the hell is your pride?"

Even as he twisted the knife deeper into her heart, she didn't care. _To hell with pride_, she thought for a split second. _This isn't about that_. "I know I hurt you but I want a chance to make it up to you, Tristan. _Please_. I want you in my life."

"And I really don't want to have anything to do with your life," he replied, harshly. He gave her an even, malicious look. "I don't think I want that kind of responsibility."

He was infuriating, that had never changed. While a long time ago it had repelled her, it was one of the things that she knew made up Tristan DuGrey, one of the things that drew her to him despite herself. "So that's it, then? You'll just walk away from this unscathed."

"Not completely unscathed, Gilmore. I'll give you that much," he conceded pocketing one hand and mockingly rubbing the heel of the other over his heart. "But yeah, lesson learned. We aren't some tragic story, you know. It's not the end of the world."

"I can't shut my feelings off like you can," she told him bitterly.

"Please, you've been doing it your entire life," he told her with a smirk. "You have blue blood in you, too. You're a natural."

He turned again and walked away. This time, she watched his back and didn't (couldn't, wouldn't) call him. The distance between their bodies grew and she stood there, wet, alone, defeated as she waited for him to turn and look back.

And it began to rain.


	3. Part Three: Heat

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

**Rating: **R (for language)

**Characters: **Rory, Tristan

**Dedication:** To Sus because she looks hot.

**Author's Note:** Yes people, I am finishing all my fics. Or at least I plan on finishing ones that are very near the end.

**Part Three: Heat**

It was too hot to be outside.

Officially the hottest day of the year, it was dry and the air stilled and stuck unpleasantly to Rory's skin. She tugged the strap of her white tank top over her shoulder and adjusted her skirt as she tried to stop from squirming in her seat. Across the wrought-iron patio table Emily Gilmore and various DAR members were talking animatedly, unaffected by the weather. Rory couldn't remember why she had agreed to accompany her grandmother to another DAR meeting but she was regretting it now.

She lifted her third glass of lemonade to her lips and took a long sip. Her eyes met kind and amused blue ones, and despite the drama she shared with the owner's grandson she found herself smiling back guiltily in return. Rosalyn DuGrey hitched her head to one side and mouthed, "Go for a walk."

Rory realized that the other women were so indulged in their planning that they wouldn't even notice if she followed Rosalyn's suggestion. She smiled at the older woman and mouthed back a "thank you" before she pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. Emily glanced up briefly, smiled distractedly and then returned to the ongoing debate.

She followed the path to the extensive gardens that the DuGreys called their backyard and let out of a sigh of relief. It wasn't any cooler in the gardens but at least she didn't have to listen to old women babbling about the right color combination for an event that was still weeks away. She breathed deeply and made her way to the pool, she knew the DuGrey land almost as well as she knew her grandparent's estate and she didn't want to dwell on the implications of that.

Thoughts of Tristan were kept in a double-locked, booby-trapped file in the back of her mind that would take _Mission_ _Impossible_-like stunts to access. And when a few errant thoughts slipped out, she easily clobbered them and wrestled them back into the file; choosing sheer avoidance as the best course of action.

Not that she _had_ much of a choice, even if she wanted to do something about it, Tristan was too stubborn, too uncaring, to listen to reason.

Forcibly wrenching her mind away from these thoughts, Rory worried her bottom lip, debating whether or not to take a dip in the inviting blue pool. She knew the DuGreys wouldn't mind and Rosalyn had basically told her a million times that she was free to come and go whenever she desired. Of course that was before _The Great Separation_ as Lorelai had dubbed it, which Rosalyn knew absolutely nothing about so Rory wasn't sure if Tristan's grandmother would have been that friendly knowing that she was no longer a part of his life.

It had been almost three months since she had last seen him, when she had stood in the rain painfully pouring her heart out while he callously rejected her obvious remorse. After that, her remorse had quickly turned into anger which she channeled constructively into taking on stressful finals and it had kept her going right through graduation and the first few weeks of summer.

And now she was just tired.

She fell asleep night after night due to sheer exhaustion but hadn't had a proper night's sleep since Christmas. Even going back to Stars Hollow, her sanctuary, her home, hadn't been the anecdote she hoped it would and only left her with an ennui she couldn't seem to shake off.

Finally deciding that it was just too hot not to jump into the inviting water, she looked around to make sure she wasn't being watched and stripped down to her bra and panties. Depositing her clothes on the chaise lounge nearby, she dove elegantly into the pool, barely breaking the water and surfaced at the other end. She grasped the ledge and let out a tired chuckle; she was never athletic and her muscles protested to one simple length. After taking a few breaths, she went under again ignoring her body's request to stop; the water was refreshing and helped clear her mind of thoughts as she concentrated on pushing her limbs through the water.

From the living room window of his grandparent's house, Tristan had seen her strip and dive into the water. He stood there for a minute, mouth slightly open in shock while his mind registered the fact that Rory was standing at the edge of the pool in her pale-pink-might-as-well-be-naked underwear. Despite everything he couldn't stop his body from reacting to a sight he'd only envisioned in his fantasies and he automatically moved forward and made his way outside to the pool.

He had known his grandmother was having her DAR meeting on the patio so he took the other way, hoping to avoid their fawning and small talk. He hadn't known Rory would be there even though for reasons unbeknownst to everyone, she enjoyed working for the DAR. He would have avoided visiting his grandparents if he had known. Or maybe he would have come all the same.

With her he never knew what he was doing.

Despite his best efforts to keep her and thoughts of her at bay, and the fact that he had completely and – yes, he admitted it with extreme guilt – callously cut her out of his life, she still managed to pop into his thoughts. More than he cared for, in fact. He had done the right thing – the smart thing – by cutting his losses. It was impossible to be Rory's friend, to care for her so much and have this cloud of possibility; of 'if only' hanging over his head every time he got within a few feet of her. Even when he tried hard to deny it, deny himself the pleasure of kissing her senseless, it was always there, just hovering beneath the surface. The only thing that kept him going was knowing (hoping, praying) that she felt the same way, felt the heat between them that had existed way too long.

Apparently, he was _very_ wrong.

When Tristan stood at the edge of the pool, she was at the other end; under the water moving with a grace he hadn't known she possessed her body straight and sleek. She turned, with little trouble and headed back to his side, unaware of his presence. She looked naked and he had to remind himself not to go there, before he said or did something he would regret later.

Rory surfaced and looked directly up at him, grasping the ledge and wondering if he was really standing there or if the sun had finally fried her brain and she was starting to imagine things. Running a hand over her face, she found her voice and managed a weak, "Tristan. You're here. What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Europe."

He pocketed his hands in the shorts and shrugged, looking away. "Trip got postponed. Grandfather had some stuff to take care of at home so we're leaving in a few days."

"I didn't know," she explained and ran a finger over the surface of the water, still grasping the ledge with one hand trying to hide the fact that she was mostly naked. "I wouldn't have…I mean, if I'd known, that you'd…or not just you, anyone-"

Tristan finally looked at her, levelly. "It's okay. No one minds."

Rory nodded and kicked her legs uselessly under the water. She debated whether or not to just get out of the water, casually walk to her clothes without asking for his help and give him an eyeful of her body or ask him to hand her a towel and break her promise of never needing him for anything. "Um…"

He seemed to understand her predicament grabbed a towel from the chaise lounge nearby. Opening the bright blue towel, he stood beside the ladder and held it for her politely looking away as she ascended out of the water. For some odd reason, him being so _okay_ with her presence, being so unaffected by it as if she were some stranger hurt her more.

Tristan deliberately kept his eyes off of her, not wanting to torture himself with the sight of her in all her glory; pink, flushed, wet and so Rory that he would surely spend countless nights wondering how she would feel under his fingertips.

And even as he thought this (his self-preservation instinct wasn't honed so perfectly after all) he couldn't stop himself from wrapping the towel around her, so innocently, and tucking it in a knot, in the middle, in the valley between her breasts. Hesitantly, almost casually, the back of his fingers, grazed against her dewy skin and his knuckles (mistake, such a fucking mistake) bumped against the swell of her breasts.

She shuddered at the delicious contact and when her eyes met his, her lips opened on their own accord. But before she could even say his name, his arms fell away from her and he took a step back as if burned. Swallowing past the lump in her throat and curling her fingers futility into her palm, she choked out, "How's it working for you?"

Tristan looked at her, this time, questioningly. "What?"

She shook water out of her hair with one hand as the other clutched onto the towel and tried to remain nonchalant even as her words came out bitingly, "Hating me, how's that working for you?"

The corner of his lips twitched but in a way devoid of any humor. "Don't start, Ror."

In the past, he had always used "Ror" affectionately but now it just sounded bitter and ironic. She bit her bottom lip in frustration and decided that she had had enough of obsessing about him; she was tired of wondering how he felt or if he missed her and tired of hurting over him.

Wasting her love on Tristan DuGrey had become an ugly habit.

"You're right," she finally said and brushed past him to get to her discarded clothes. "My mistake. I don't know why I thought you'd want me -"

He didn't know what compelled him to do it; maybe it was the heat of her so close, smelling like chlorine and summer (and because she was fucking _Rory_) or maybe it was the heat alone but he circled her wrist in his hand as she passed by and pulled her back to him, their bodies softly bumping against one another. Her hands immediately went to his chest as she tried to regain balance and her eyes (Jesus Christ why did everything come back to those blue eyes?) widened in surprise as she stared back at him.

_Fuck_, he thought as his hands grabbed onto her hips and the staggering inevitably of the moment hit him. _What the hell am I doing? _His eyes opened and trained on her shocked ones, he lowered his head and covered her lips with his. She remained completely passive, unmoving and he hated that he feared it was from disgust more than surprise but then her eyes fluttered closed and the hands on his chest moved up and gripped at his shoulders, softly kneading as her mouth responded to him.

_Finally_, she thought almost blissfully somewhere in the back of her mind as his arms banded around her and brought her closer, _finally_. Then his mouth opened and slanted over hers, deepening the kiss, and she couldn't think at all.

Rory had imagined and dreamed herself into a frenzy wondering about what he'd taste like, how he'd feel and now she knew that once would never be enough. Passionate, strong, erotic, possessive - the kiss took from all of her and she could only hold him closer and match him need for need.

Nothing his imagination could conjure up would have been as powerful as actually kissing her, holding her warm and deliciously wet and perfect in his arms. Her enthusiastic response, the way her tongue danced hotly with his and the soft purring sound coming from low in her throat made he ache, made his whole body burn in a way he had never dreamed. Her fingers were now in his hair and his hands had worked up her body to undo the knot of the towel. It fell between them and he greedily reached for flesh, reaching between their bodies to take her breasts in his hands. She gasped into his mouth and broke away from his lips and raced hers over his jaw, over his cheeks and then back to his mouth for another searing kiss.

The reality of Rory Gilmore was a more wickedly powerful punch than any fantasy. _And a thousand times more dangerous_, a small voice chided him over the rushing blood in ears. _You should know that by now._

As effective as a bucket of cold water, the prickly reminder served its purpose and he dragged his mouth away from her, abruptly ending their embrace. She whimpered as he drew away and then opened her eyes in shock when he grabbed her upper arms and physically pushed her away.

Rory stared at him, panting and trembling (fuck, she was trembling) and brought her fingers to her lips, still feeling his kiss tingle against her lips. She had no idea why he had pushed her away but there was this look on his face that made her already shattered heart crack. She watched as he bent down to retrieve the towel again and, without looking at her, wordlessly handed it back to her.

Fighting back tears, anger and the sharp sting of rejection she took the towel, carefully avoiding his fingers. Slowly, she wrapped it around herself, willing her fingers not to tremble and turned to go (run away and weep).

"I don't hate you," he said suddenly, before she could leave, stopping her though she didn't turn around. The words tumbled out and he couldn't make sense of them himself, "I just really wish I could."

When she (finally) walked away, he could feel the heat right down to his bones.

_To Be Continued…_


	4. Part Four: Fall

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.

**Rating: **R (for language)

**Characters: **Rory, Tristan

**Dedication:** To all you beautiful people.

**Author's Note:** This is the end. There will be no sequel. Hope you guys enjoy it, even though this is largely unbetaed.

**Part Four: Fall**

The air was crisp and fresh, cold enough to require a jacket or sweater but still nice enough to enjoy the outdoors. Rory didn't exactly call raking leaves entertainment but she was with her mother and that always made things interesting.

Rory smiled as she watched her mother struggle to bag a pile of fallen leaves. Huffing, Lorelai got the last leaf inside the black trash bag and let out a triumphant cry. "A-ha! I did it. Finally! I am done with my pile of leaves, oh daughter of mine. I believe I have broken your record, set in what was it? Oh right, fall of '99."

Rory rolled her eyes good naturedly. "Okay Mom, you win. All hail Lorelai Gilmore, Leaf Gatherer Extraordinaire."

"And?" her mother asked expectantly.

"And Goddess Divine," Rory bit out.

"Why thank you darling," she answered with a grin. "You're sweet."

Rory laughed and continued to finish picking her leaves. Lorelai had tried really hard to make things better for her, filling their days with stuff they used to do when Rory was younger, things she always cherished. She didn't think it was possible for her mother to be any greater but Lorelai was constantly changing the bar for excellent motherhood. Well, in her opinion at least.

In the few days Rory had been back to Stars Hollow, because of her mother's constant support, she hadn't once thought about Tristan DuGrey.

Okay, no, she corrected herself with a frown. She had _only_ thought about him _once _every two hours, which was a vast improvement from the summer, after her kissed her and wished he could hate her, when she had thought about him all the time.

Rory sighed and reached down to pick up her last pile of leaves when she heard her mother's slight gasp and soft oath. She straightened and furrowed her brow in concern. "What's up, Mom?"

"Uh, honey," Lorelai said as she stepped forward and grabbed Rory's elbow. "When you turn around, I'd just like you to think about what a great time we're having and not let what you see ruin that, okay? And if need be, just say the word and some major ass-kicking will commence."

"Mother," Rory said with a disbelieving laugh, "why would I want someone's ass kicked and why would I choose you to do it?"

"Rory," Lorelai said with a soft smile. "Just turn around."

Slowly, Rory did so and felt the cold autumn air send a shiver up her spine. Or it was the figure leaning against his sleek silver BMW parked at the end of their driveway that did that. She couldn't be sure. "Oh."

"Yeah. Do you want me to get out my baseball bat?"

"Mom," she answered, trying not to look at Tristan. "Do you own a baseball bat?"

"Right," Lorelai said as she wrapped one arm around her daughter's waist. "We'll have to rely on my dropkick."

"Which means I'm better off trying to hear what he has to say," Rory said with a sigh. God, she really didn't want to do that.

"That's very mature of you," Lorelai said. "And - _hey_!"

Rory turned around and kissed her mother's cheek. "Thanks Mom."

"Any time, sweets."

After her mother left, Tristan pushed himself off his car and started to walk towards her. She watched him as he came, not registering fully, what was happening. She could only think that he looked gorgeously tanned and that the soft grey trench coat he wore over his tailored slacks and crisp cream sweater made him look like the romantic lead of some amazingly sappy movie. His expression was unreadable, but his cheeks were tinged pink from the cold and his lips look extremely kissable.

She hated that she still thought about kissing him.

The dried leaves crunched under his shoes as her eyes widened, finally comprehending that he was coming closer with each second she spent taking him in. He stopped mere feet away from her and kept his eyes, blue and vivid, trained carefully on her looking for any signs of displeasure or anger. Tentatively, he smiled. "Hello Rory."

Her lips pursed slightly, and the garbage bag dropped from her hand. "Hi."

"You cut your hair."

Regrettably, a hand flew to her head, pushed a stray strand behind her ear. "Yeah."

"I like it." It shouldn't have mattered, she told herself, if he did. Somewhere deep inside, though, it did matter. And that should have been enough for her to turn around and tell him to leave. But, she didn't. "I like it better longer, though."

She shuffled her feet, shivered (against the cold, she told herself), and tilted her head to one side. No need for niceties. "Why are you here, Tristan?"

"I came to see you."

"Weren't you off somewhere, trying to hate me?" She hated the bitterness that seeped through her voice. Damn it, why couldn't she just remain unaffected?

His smile was bitter, too. She took little consolation from it. "I couldn't."

She shook her head, looked away. "Yeah, so you've said."

"Ror-" he started but she vehemently cut him off.

"Don't call me that."

He shook his head and tried again. "Gilmore, come on."

She looked and him incredulously. "Are you seriously doing this? Standing here and saying 'Gilmore come on'?"

"What do you want me to say, Rory?" he asked, exasperated. "I drove all the way here to talk to you and you're being petty."

"Petty?" She almost shrieked. Her hands balled into fists at her side and her teeth clenched. "I'm being petty, Tristan?"

His jaw clenched, in an effort to keep from lashing out and Rory wanted to throw something at him, she was so mad. He had no right to come here and be angry with her when she was the one whose turn it was for righteous indignation. She told him as much and he shook his head and sighed, frustrated. "Fuck it."

"Excuse me?" she almost shrieked, inwardly wincing at how insanely this entire conversation was going. "Did you just curse?"

"Right," he stated witheringly, "I forgot who I was talking to: should I say 'gosh darn it'? Does that work better for you, princess?"

Her expression hardened and she lifted her chin, a fraction of an inch. "What works for me is if you leave, Tristan. I've had enough of you to last me a lifetime so please, just go."

She turned away from him but she didn't need to see him to know that he was running a hand through his hair and debating whether to leave or to stay and arrogantly, _angrily_, demand to be heard.

Rory hated that arrogance, was drawn to it nonetheless, and hated that she knew he was going to stay because if nothing else, his anger wouldn't let him go until he said his piece.

So she stood there, back rigid, arms folded under her chest and waited, for the inevitable calm voice to come from Tristan's lips – a virtue he had learned over the years. Something to add to the list of the things she absolutely hated in connection with Tristan: he had only grown, dare she say it, _mellow_ over the years dealing with her while she was the one that had finally come into her mother's inheritance – the legendary Gilmore temper.

"Rory," he said finally, voice so composed, one would think he hadn't been thinking about strangling her a second ago. "Please turn around and look at me. Please."

Tears stung her eyes, _damn it_, at the gentleness at the ended of his plea. She bit her bottom lip. "_I can't_."

She heard him step closer, come to stand directly behind her and sucked in a breath, waiting for him to touch her. He didn't; instead brought his arm in front of her, a small, red fez with a yellow tassel resting on his palm. "I got this for you."

Amazingly, a giggle threatened to escape her lips. "Yeah?"

"I couldn't resist," he replied with a chuckle. "I kept thinking how much you'd like it. And then how you always wanted to go to Fez and that inevitably led me to recall the night you bought me a fez and made me wear and take incriminating photos and how I really needed to find a way to get back at you for that."

Rory was laughing now as she took the fez and turned around, eyes bright with unshed tears as she met his gaze. "You never will."

His expression sobered as he said, quietly. "I kept thinking of you."

"Tristan -"

"All the time," he barreled on, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Granted, in the beginning of my trip it was with anger but Grandfather got fed up with that pretty quickly and pretty much threatened to disown me if I didn't stop yelling at the maids and everyone else. Then I got drunk. Ridiculously, ass-backwards, deliriously drunk."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "Bet that Janlan _loved_ that."

He grinned wryly. "Not so much. The threat still loomed."

Despite the turmoil churning in her stomach, she managed to smile. "Then?"

"I sobered up – because I really like being rich – and you were still there." This time he did touch her, a gentle tug of her hair as he curled it behind her ear. "I kept thinking of that kiss. Of how much better that could have gone. Of how much better that past few months could have gone."

"Listen, I just can't do this right now."

"Too bad," he answered, a little coldly. "I'm here right now."

"Oh so that's how it works, is it?" she asked, feeling the temper only he managed to quell and spike in a split second, returning full force. "We talk and discuss when you feel like it? Not when I'm standing in the rain outside a Starbucks, _begging_ you to forgive me?"

"Rory-"

"No," she stated passionately, pressing her hand to her heart. "I thought about you too, Tristan. Despite my best efforts, I thought about you all the fucking time. I kept making a list of why it was better that we weren't together."

"Must've been long considering you've been writing it since we were sixteen."

"Don't be glib," she replied, hurt. "It wasn't a relationship you wanted from me when we were sixteen. I was a conquest. Maybe I've always been one. Something you could finally say you did."

"I can't believe you went there!" he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. "Are we really…fucking A, Rory, sometimes I just want to strangle you."

"Right back at ya."

They stood glaring at each other, breathing heavily into the cold air, neither willing to move or back down from their angry stance. Since he was the one that came, Tristan was the first to speak. "I came here to apologize, not to fight."

She snorted, unladylike. "Since when has that ever been our MO?"

He waited one breathless beat and reached for her again, this time pulling her chin up to his as he stepped forward, gently pressing his body into hers. "I love you, Rory. I have always loved you."

His closeness and the rollercoaster of emotions she was experiencing made her head hurt even as her heart felt like it was exploding in her chest. When her gaze met his, this time, her eyes were clear and bright blue. "I love you, too."

He smiled and pressed his lips against hers, softly, briefly. "Then what's holding us back?"

She sighed, stepped away. "_This_ is holding us back. The constant up and down, the back and forth and the things we say to each other. God, Tristan, we can't spend a single moment without fighting, hurting. I've never been so mad at anyone in my entire life."

"Neither have I." He dug his hands into his coat pockets.

"That's not exactly healthy." She sighed and walked to the porch steps, sitting down because she was just too tired. "We need space. I need to think."

He came to sit beside her and took her hand into his, turning it around and kissing the palm. "Rory, I've never been healthy when it came to you. I was obsessed with you as a teenager, to be sure but it wasn't love. And then when we were in each other's life again, I spent an unhealthy amount of time obsessing about not being anything but your friend. I've kinda gotten used to being sick on you."

She sniffled. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, DuGrey."

"You know what I mean," he said, this time kissing her forehead. "We don't need space and time, Rory. We need to date. To give this a chance."

"Slowly," she answered after a long moment of deliberation. "Baby steps."

"I might just explode, but okay," he replied with a small grin. "How 'bout I take you out for coffee tonight?"

She nodded, took a deep breath and squeezed his hand. "Okay."

"Okay," he said and stood up, pulling her with him. His lips descended on hers and she knew that 'slow' was something it would take him awhile to learn. "I'll see you at eight."

"Eight."

She watched him walk to his car and turn to wave at her. She waved back and waited for him to pull out of the driveway. The afternoon sun glinted off of his car and she saw him smile as he reached to turn on his CD player.

Lorelai stepped behind her and wrapped an arm around her daughter's waist. "You okay?"

She nodded and watched a solitary leaf fall from a tree onto the cold ground below.

**The End**


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